oh right

lets see yer teef:

family photo albums are frightfully underrated.

ronnie kray and my gran.

yesterday i inverviewed my own grandmother for tweenteen magazine about her friendship with broadmoor's own ronnie kray.

it certainly was a day of discovery.

here's a signed photo of bucks fizz that he gave her as a gift, you'll see it was made out 'to ronnie'.

i'm writing it up as we speak, the magazine's details can be  found here: clickety click.

YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE.
I URGE YOU NOT TO MISS OUT ON THIS ONE.

oh oh ohhh titarenko!

the man who created this is easily one of my all-time favourite photographers. it is beyond me how little known his work is - i think its absolutely beautiful. it makes me want to smash up my camera and eat the pieces. alexey titarenko - check him out.

HERE'S a link to his site, clickety click.

jackie fucking collins

after i read something factual, heavy-going or disturbing, i like to balance it with something a little more trivial, and occasionally something brian-dissolvingly awful. i recently finished 'fred & rose' (see earlier post) and i thought it might be time to allow my mind to relax a little. how welcome is a spot of sweet desert after a large, savoury main course? very.
being back in my hometown has stirred up many a fond memory of long, sunburnt hours spend lolling around on the beach reading the deliciously inane literature of one jackie collins (who's sister, joan, you will have heard of if you aren't familiar with the author herself) so when i see two of her books, ones which i haven't even read, going at £1 for the pair - the dreamy deal is as good as done.
sun blazing down and deckchair wrestled into something that could potentially be sat on, i open the first page of 'hollywood wives' (self-proclaimed '#1 best seller!') and prepare myself for a happy afternoon of fictional glamour, rumors, murder and incest. but after 56 pages, something is very wrong.
yes, all the necessary components are there, and in their dozens, but it isn't hitting the spot. for the first time ever, i find myself thinking 'why am i reading this?' am i too intelligent? no. am i too grown up? no. do i consider myself above a little trash-fiction? certainly not. so why am i not enjoying it? the offending novel is next to me as i write this, i've been sparing it a glare every few sentences, but still i do not know why. imagine one day, if you were to watch eastenders, and genuinely not enjoy it, even on some low low level. would you not be somewhat, if secretly, alarmed?
i'm worried.
i am very very worried.
i may see a doctor.
all that aside, the first line definitely didn't disappoint;
'Elaine Conti awoke in her luxurious bed in her luxuious Beverly Hills mansion, pressed a button to open the electrically controlled drapes, and was confronted by the sight of a young man clad in a white T-shirt and dirty jeans pissing a perfect arc into her mosaic tiled swimming pool.'
now THATS what i call reading.

its friday the thirteenth,

and i want this.

in that case;

i'll just post loads of meaningless crap thats on my mind.
its what everybody else does, isn't it?

ok.

B L O C K

for months and months now i've been riddled with thoughts, fizzing with ideas, positively bursting with potential posts.
so many photographs i have seen that i've wanted to share; so many thoughts i've had that i've felt the need to express; so sooo many moral/ethical/political/trivial discussions that i have had, debating subjects upon which i've longed to illustrate my view.
i'm finally in position, poised at the computer, ready...

my photographs are no longer interesting.
my thoughts are useless.
my previously-strong opinions are now weaker than a single pub measure.
my head is empty.
my mind is asleep.

fuck.

the beginning ends here: